


Scientific Proof (That Silence is Golden)

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 24-hour porn challenge, Flirting, M/M, Truth or Dare, come-at-once challenge, slight bed-sharing, stupid competitions result in fun times for all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9820970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: John might play dirty, but Sherlock is determined to win the game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 24-Hour Sherlock Multi-verse Porn Challenge. I was picked by the lovely **[beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie)** and given the prompt, "Oh, really?"
> 
> Crazy-mad props to **[billiethepoet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/billiethepoet)** , who beta'd in record time. <3

“Oh, _really_?”

The way John said it unfurled along Sherlock’s skin like the slow-rolling stretch of a cat in a sunny patch, at once aloof and alert.

Sherlock nodded, and would have been more nervous about his suggestion, were it not for the way mischief animated John’s expression, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of trouble.

“And what happens if I win?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, but then remembered better. He fumbled for a piece of paper and wrote down his reply.

_If you win I’ll_

But the pen faltered as Sherlock twitched it millimetres above the paper in thought. What would be a suitable prize? If their positions were reversed, he knew exactly what he’d request. But that was neither here nor there, since John had never intimated that he’d wanted to act on the occasional spark that flickered between them in unguarded moments.

He took a noisy breath and took a gamble on the most distasteful favour he could think of. _If you win, I’ll be nice to your next girlfriend._

John, who had leaned forward to watch Sherlock write down his offer, snorted as he read it. “Not bloody likely. I want something different.”

Sherlock twisted his head to frown at him, the _Well, what do you want?_ written plain in the pinch between his brows.

But John wasn’t budging. “You tell me. What do I want?”

Personally, with John being as obstinate as he was, Sherlock wanted to throttle him, just a little. Just enough to get his frustration across. Instead he let out a longsuffering exhalation and wrote, _Fine. If you win, you can choose your prize. Since you delight in being opaque._

John raised an eyebrow, not best pleased with that answer, but Sherlock was all-too-willing to ignore it. “All right. And if you win?”

This was the question Sherlock had dreaded. He knew what he’d like, that sort of fantasy wish one could get when the normal rules on acceptable behaviour could be suspended in a game like truth or dare. But no, he knew better than that. So instead, he shook his head and lifted his palms in an almost-shrug. The only thing he could think of was a total non-answer, but it was about the only thing he had to go on.

_If I win, I get to gloat._

John tilted his head to the side, a sublime parody of consideration. “Hm, no. You’ll do that anyway.”

Sherlock clenched his teeth, regretting by the second entering into this asinine dare. This was the sort of trouble they only got into when the dearth of cases stretched into mind-numbing tedium.

_If I win, I’ll let you know._

The cat-in-cream tone suffused John’s voice again. “Sounds dangerous. All right, you’re on. I could do with a week’s silence from you.” And then the insufferable twat winked. _Winked_.

 

* * *

 

 

**DAY ONE**

They counted the first twenty-four hours from the nearest hour that Sherlock had agreed to the damn bet, which put it at eleven p.m. each day. The first hour wasn’t terrible. Sherlock found a suitable experiment to occupy his mind, and John seemed content to leave him to it, opting to use the time curling up with whatever trash novel he was reading lately.

At the end of that hour, Sherlock heard John begin to stir in his periphery. After another minute, John entered the kitchen and began puttering around. Sherlock sensed his goal was to blatantly irritate Sherlock, from the way he inspected the fridge to clattering crockery in the cabinets, to sweeping _only_ the patch of floor nearest Sherlock.

Needless to say, his mission was proving more successful by the minute, until Sherlock opened his mouth to snap, _“Stop it, John. I’m trying to work. Why don’t you find something useful to do, like not be in this flat?”_

But he caught himself, only with the sure knowledge that John would be unbearable if he won their wager only an hour into the test.

It did not escape John’s notice; his eyes shuttered into pleased slits and a full smirk stretched his lips thin. “Having trouble already?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw around the obvious retort, and instead jabbed a bamboo skewer harder into the cow liver before him with more force than was absolutely necessary.

John patted his shoulder, condescension in each touch. “Think I’ll turn in. Sweet dreams.”

The only proper retort Sherlock felt forthcoming was one that succinctly summed up his frustration in a way John would appreciate: an emphatic two-finger salute as he glared at John.

 

* * *

 

  


**DAY TWO**

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, relaxed and near-dozing as he contemplated a strategy with which he might win the game. It had circled fruitlessly, and he’d abandoned it in favour of trying to suss out a suitable boon he could demand when he won.

He was lucky he’d rolled away to face the backside of the sofa as his half-asleep state led him to play out the natural trail his thoughts meandered down, the one where he got to ask John for what he really wanted: a kiss. It was simple. If it led to more, fantastic. If it was all he’d ever get, it would suffice.

Before he could really delve further into the fantasy in the confines of his mind, fingers carded through his tangled curls. Then weight settled onto the plush armrest by his head. Sherlock stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath as he was snatched from his doze.

John was touching him in a way he hadn’t before, and while Sherlock was slightly off-kilter about it, that didn’t mean Sherlock couldn’t enjoy the hell out of it.

“Hope I didn’t startle you,” John lied conversationally.

For an excruciating, tempting second Sherlock considered sitting up and returning the touch, but it seemed… far too intimate that way. Instead he rolled over to glare as he grasped John’s wrist and plucked those fingers from his hair  When he looked up to gauge John’s reaction, he was met with neutrality before an impish smile broke across John’s face.

Sherlock’s only recourse was to roll off of the couch and beat a hasty retreat to his room. For the first time, Sherlock’s resolve to win the game wavered. This was going to be unbearable.

 

* * *

  


**DAYS THREE - SIX**

The next few days dragged on in a haze of frustration, both at being unable to speak lest he lose this bet, and a constant simmer of sexual frustration he was sure he hadn’t had to endure since the age of seventeen.

After brushing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, John seemed to take annoying Sherlock in this way as a side-challenge. There were grazes of fingertips across the back of Sherlock’s neck as John might move from the sofa to the mantel in search of some scrap of mail while sniping about bills being paid. Light palms laid to shoulders. John leaning in far too close to mutter innocent questions like, “Anything you need from Tesco? I’m about to pop out.”

Sherlock knew, was certain it was a behaviour goaded by the spiteful impetus to win the bet, the sort of odd game of chicken played by jocular straight men, daring one another to get closer to something approaching homosexual activity before calling another’s bluff. John had likely done it in school, and surely it was a bonding tool in the army.

That had to be the reason John was doing this now. It explained this, the light grazes, all of it. For all John knew, that’s all it would be. Sherlock took pride in his poker face, after all.

 

* * *

  


**DAY SEVEN**

“Erm, why isn’t he talking? Usually he’s run off half my officers by now.”

Sherlock glanced back to Lestrade, who leaned toward John conspiratorially. His question clouded before his face in a white puff, condensing in the wet February freeze.

John, damn him, flicked a glance in Sherlock’s direction before shrugging. “Beats me. It’s probably something I said.”

Sherlock couldn’t decide whether it was better or worse, that explanation, than divulging the details of their bet. He turned away, focusing again on the murder victim splayed before him. This was too distracting. With every new observation, he fought musings that would bubble up unthinking.

John’s shoes crunched quietly on the grit of the carpark as he crossed over to stand at Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Any luck?”

Sherlock turned, drew in a breath to explain with a raised hand, and froze. God _damn_ it. So he turned back to the body, too dead to care he was glaring daggers.

A sharp pain twinged on the cartilage of his ear. John had flicked it. And then did it again. Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his teeth together. He rose and turned to face John, only inches apart. Close as he was, John’s breath steamed between them, clouding the laser-precision of John’s gaze meeting his unflinching.

At this distance, Sherlock could lean forward. He could kiss him or flick him in return, but he settled on gripping John’s shoulders and letting out a testy snort. An aborted nod of his head made John relent, the ghost of an apology tugging one corner of his mouth down.

The boundary-pushing was one thing in the privacy of their flat, but this was a bit not good, and he made sure John knew as much before he relented.

“Sorry,” John murmured, and Sherlock could feel how much he meant it.

Sherlock’s expression softened, and he gave a long blink, forgiveness in the flutter of his eyelids. His grip relaxed on John’s shoulders and he gave another nod, his gloved hands skimming down the layered bulk of John’s upper arms, obscured as they were by his heavy coat. The _shhh_ of fabric was lost to the distant chatter of officers going about their business.

Maybe it was the transmutation of annoyance attempting to dissipate into something calmer, but the tension between them shifted just a fraction, catching Sherlock’s pulse in his throat.

What it meant, he wasn’t quite sure.

* * *

They stumbled into their flat hours later, Sherlock’s skin too tight between winter’s bluster and the roiling irritation fueled by having to actually fill out Lestrade’s paperwork for once, since his explanation was otherwise not forthcoming.

His mood only darkened as he stepped into 221 to find his breath still clouding before his face. In that way only buildings could manage, it felt colder within, despite the shelter from the wind. The sodding furnace was out.

“Sherlock, let me in. It’s freezing out here,” John grumbled from the sidewalk before gently nudging Sherlock forward from the threshold. When he stepped in he let out a hiss. “Bollocks, did the power go out?”

Sherlock flicked on a nearby light switch. The power was still on, as evidenced by the mellow illumination overhead. John pinched his brow.

“Did the gas go out, then? It’s going to be miserable.”

It was late enough at night they wouldn’t be able to call any professional out to give the furnace a look, and luckily Mrs. Hudson was away for the weekend.

“What do we do?” John asked.

_Ah,_ Sherlock thought, and held up a finger to John. _One moment_. He fumbled with his keyring until he found the extra to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and let himself in. She enjoyed a good fire on the occasional winter evening, and was likely to have extra wood out back of the building, by the bins. Surely enough, he found a smallish stack piled up just beneath the eaves, tucked under a heavy blue tarpaulin.

* * *

It didn’t take long until the fire crackled conversationally and its heat began pushing back the bitter cold air in 221b. Sherlock watched from the kitchen as he busied himself making tea while John stood before the fireplace, palms outstretched to warm them as he admired his handiwork.

“The heat’s not going to get very far,” John said absently. “I’m kipping down here. I’ll be able to keep it stoked, at any rate.”

John had a point, and it was cold enough Sherlock certainly wasn’t inclined to argue, even if he _could_ speak. Instead he left John’s steaming mug on a free space atop the mantel before heading to his room to change into pyjamas and gather blankets.

* * *

By the time he was done, John had also gotten into his pyjamas and was pulling their armchairs back to widen the space before the fireplace. Sherlock dropped his own blanket onto the sofa and watched as John fluffed out a thick spare comforter on the floor, building a pallet.

Sherlock frowned, and moved to lay a hand on John’s arm. When John looked up, Sherlock shook his head in protest.

“No? What, am I not doing it right?” John said, and if anyone else had heard his tone, they’d have assumed John was annoyed, but Sherlock knew better.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t be fooled this easily. Of course John would do something as stupid as this, if it meant trying to win the bet. Sherlock sighed and touched John’s shoulder, the one that carried his scar and still clicked loudly in the cold weather. Then he pointed at the blanket on the floor and frowned. Then he gestured between John and the couch, and made sure his face read, _Idiot._

“No, but thanks. I’ll stick down here by the fire where it’s nice and toasty. You’re more than welcome to sleep on the couch, or you can come share some space down here.” John’s tone was matter-of-fact, perfectly friendly, the same tone that said, _Sherlock, at least eat some toast_ the first time it needed saying, or _Sherlock, let’s not insult the client_ too _much._

Sherlock was torn. This had to be a trick. They were only two hours off from eleven, when the full week ended and Sherlock could speak again. This had to be some sort of hail-mary pass John was making in order to get Sherlock to speak. He’d probably done something to sabotage the furnace to set up this whole sodding scenario. At this point Sherlock wouldn’t put anything past him.

Besides, if Sherlock accepted the offer, he was likely to fall asleep and do any number of things he might regret. He’d studied sexsomnia during a particular case a few years back, and he was too smart to think he was impervious to that particular danger.

Eventually, though, cold and exhaustion won out, and he collected his duvet from the couch in defeat.

John smiled. “Thought you’d see it my way.”

Sherlock helped him finish setting down the extra blankets before stretching out, his back facing John. John mirrored him, facing away on his good shoulder.

Then John tugged the blanket away, until Sherlock was only half-covered. Sherlock scowled. He would be _so_ glad when this damned bet was over. He rolled over and flicked John hard on the shoulder before yanking his share of the blanket back.

John rolled over to face him, studied him for a long moment while Sherlock glared at him.

“You’ve done surprisingly well this week. Just in case you make it, what’ll your prize be, hm?’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, clearly thinking, _Oh, really? You plan on fooling me like that, after everything else this week?_

John snorted. “Fine, fine. It was worth a shot, hm?”

John shifted and lay flat on his back, hands behind his head. The heat from the fire radiated, warming Sherlock’s icy feet, casting its warm flickering glow on John’s skin, transforming him into a creature of sun and gold.

Sherlock had figured out his prize, dumb as it was, after a whole week of struggling. He couldn’t ask for what he really wanted, so the best he could manage was to ask John for something simple, like his most embarrassing adolescent story or somesuch. It followed the rules of truth or dare; surely it would not appear to be the cop-out it was.

The fire was a far more potent soporific than Sherlock would have guessed. Within minutes his muscles began to unfurl, to melt into the warmth and the softness of the quilts he lay between. His eyes grew heavy.

He wanted to stay awake, at least long enough to make it to eleven and gloat mercilessly, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able. No matter; he’d set an alarm for the exact end of this farce shortly after they’d solidified the bet. 

* * *

 

Rather than wake to the familiar chirp of his alarm, he woke up to the prickle of heat sharp enough he’d broken into a sweat, and then registered the press of John’s body against his. Well, that might not be an accurate description. It would be more precise to describe it as John, still lying on his back, with Sherlock half-sprawled atop him.

Sherlock stiffened in mortification. This was--he knew shouldn’t have agreed to sleep here. This had been a terrible fucking idea.

Before he could bolt, though, John pulled one hand from beneath his own head and laid it lightly on Sherlock’s knee, the one thrown over John’s thighs.

“You don’t have to move, you know.”

That did nothing to relieve Sherlock’s tension. This was a tease turning cruel, now, but he still couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

“Shall I tell you what I want my prize to be, when I win?”

Sherlock, naturally, didn’t say anything. John turned his head to face Sherlock.

“When I win, I’d really, _really_ like to do unspeakable things to you right here in front of this fire. If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock did his best to keep his face trained to stony impassivity, but it was likely far too damning that he still hadn’t disentangled himself from John.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. You might be good at reading people, Sherlock Holmes, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind, and it doesn’t mean you’ve got a perfect poker face.”

Sherlock only barely stopped himself from making a noise of outrage at that. John as good as heard it anyway, and grinned. It was a soft, fonder thing than he’d ever turned on Sherlock before.

“I’m not teasing about this, I swear. I’ve been at it all week, sure, and partly to get a rise out of you. But I’m not joking right now. And if I’m overstepping my bounds, I’m sorry. But..erm. Yeah.” His smile twitched just a little pulling downward just enough to morph into something self-deprecating.

Sherlock considered his options. Either John was having him on, or he was serious. If this was part of some cruel, elaborate game, Sherlock supposed he _could_ just move out of the country. If John _wasn’t_ joking, though…

John shifted, nearly on his side, and pulled Sherlock’s leg closer.

_Well_ , Sherlock thought. Given the burgeoning erection now pressing against his inner thigh, he doubted it was a cruel joke after all. He couldn’t hide the way he shivered, and John’s fingers tightened reflexively where they hooked around the back of Sherlock’s knee.

Then John’s grip loosened, and his hand drifted slowly upward along Sherlock’s hamstring and curved to ghost up over his hip. “If you want me to stop, tell me. I won’t even count it if you say it out loud. You’ll win the game by forfeit, I swear.”

Sherlock had an easy way out, he knew. He’d finally win this ridiculous bet and be done with it, but he’d sacrifice this new development, the one where John laid his hands on him in ways that left Sherlock’s ears buzzing. He met John’s eye and didn’t blink.

John took it as permission. He let his hand trail upward, and when his fingers edged beneath the thin cotton of Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock let out a harsh breath through his nose; John’s skin was burning up, a brand that Sherlock would gladly wear the rest of his days if he could. Reflexively, Sherlock jolted, his nose bumping John’s.

John’s breath puffed against his lips, but neither of them moved. Sherlock could tell they were both holding off, waiting to see what the other would do. Competing at stupid things had gotten them this far, so why not a little further?

Sherlock broke their staring contest, looking away first to calculate how much longer he had to resist, and he looked back again at John just as quickly. He let his smile stretch wide and genuine.

“I want to kiss you,” John said, his breath another warm gust of air shared between them. “All you have to do is say yes.”

Oh, oh, now that _was_ tricky, but all Sherlock could do was grin even more, and raise an eyebrow. Then he let his gaze flicker down to John’s mouth and back up, bit his own lip. If John could play dirty all week, then by god Sherlock could do it now.

His ploy did not go unnoticed. John licked his own lips. “All it takes is a yes,” he teased.

The temptation was heady, but Sherlock held his ground.

Then, just as he’d anticipated, his mobile chimed.

John’s head jerked up in confusion and he groaned in disbelief. “Oh really? Is it Lestrade? Perfect sodding timing--”

Sherlock let himself laugh aloud, deep and rumbling. He caught John by the jaw just as John’s face turned back to him, and he kissed John before there was time to react. John’s confusion melted into a quiet, pleased noise, his lips parting to let Sherlock taste him.

Sherlock pulled back. “I win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: I honestly have no idea whether or not the furnace being out was John's doing or not. What do you think? Let me know down below... ;D
> 
> * * *
> 
> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
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>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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